Home-Cooking
by Valerie E. Mackin
Summary: She discovers several very good reasons not to let Connor cook at home ever again. Direct follow-up to Take-Out, will make a bit more sense if you read that one first. Sixth in my Boondock Saints OC arc. M for language, smut, and horrible cooking.


There's nothing like a home-cooked meal. And whatever it is that Connor is expertly charring in the kitchen is the rule, not the exception. It is absolutely _nothing_ like a home-cooked meal.

I've only left him alone for five minutes. What can he have possibly ruined in five minutes?

Lord bless him. I told him I wanted to eat at home tonight. He told me he could cook. I listened. I'm not sure where to place the blame. Probably on me. I should have asked for references. I should have asked Murphy.

I follow my horrified nose and a vague haze of smoke through my apartment back to the kitchen.

If it weren't my apartment that's currently being threatened, I'd have to work a lot harder to keep from laughing. As it is, I'm just barely holding on to a straight face. The large pot of water in which we were cooking pasta is boiling over like mad, hence the starchy, scorched smell. The vegetables Connor is supposed to be stirring are sticking to the bottom of the pan (hence the smoke in the air).

Next to where Connor has been cutting up the last of the vegetables, the knife is abandoned on the cutting board next to small drips of…wait, what?

The man himself has one hand wrapped in a dish towel, one hand under running water in the sink, and a rather desperate look on his face. I can't help but immediately pity him as I move all the pots away from the heat and turn off the flames.

"Connor, how did you manage all this? Let me see your hand."

"Which one?"

Oh, _honey_…

I quickly turn my smile into a very sincere look of concern. He sounds like a five-year-old who's skinned his knees and wants them kissed and made better.

"Let's start with blood loss prevention, and then move on from there."

I unwind the towel from his left hand and do a quick assessment of the damage. All five fingers are still attached, so that's good. There's a small cut a little less than half an inch long near the tip of his thumb. Despite its small size, however, it seems more than eager to bleed above and beyond necessity.

"Okay, I'm going to dig up some bandages and such, but in the mean time, we'll wrap it back up like you had it with more pressure this time. We need to slow the bleeding a bit." I find a clean dishrag, as the one he grabbed is the one we've been cleaning with already. After winding it around his thumb, I tie it tightly to keep pressure.

"Alright, now let me see the other one and start talking." He turns off the water, presenting his right hand for me to inspect.

"I was finishin' choppin' th'vegetables like ye asked, when all of a sudden, there's a great hissin' noise from th'stove. I wasn't expectin' it, so th'knife slipped, and I knicked m'thumb. I go to move th'pot, and th'water hits me other hand, an'…an' it was just a fuckin' mess."

He looks so miserable.

"Bet you never thought making spaghetti was so dangerous." I'm still trying to hide my smile as I inspect the small pink spot on the back of his hand, but apparently I'm not doing a very good job anymore. He glowers at my insincerity as long as he can manage before he finally cracks a smile.

"Lass, I don't think I'm cut out fer th'home-cookin' sort of meal t'night. Ye mind if I treat ye instead?"

I release his hand with a kiss. "I think you can keep the hand. Amputation won't be necessary this time." His expression is so pitiful that I finally give up and allow myself a small laugh.

"Alright, but nowhere crowded."

Some bandages, a change of clothes, and one hour later sees us seated in a tiny Italian hole-in-the-wall a few blocks from my apartment. The staff seems bored when we get there, which is understandable as there is no one else in the whole of the little room. Still, our arrival doesn't seem to put any bounce in their steps, all two of them.

Did I mention this place is tiny?

"Connor, are you sure this place is really a restaurant and not someone's living room?"

"Well, ye said ye wanted a home-cooked meal t'night. Ye didn't specify whose home."

This actually makes me pause. "Are you serious? We're in somebody's house?"

"Calm down, girl, it's a family-owned place. Murph an' I eat here every now and then, it's fuckin' fantastic. Ye said ye wanted 'not crowded,' so here ye are."

They seat us in an out-of-the-way corner, an intimate spot hidden from most of the rest of the room by a strangely shaped alcove-corner combination. It's an interesting arrangement: a corner booth, but only long enough for one person on each side of the corner and no chairs. Literally a table meant for two. I guess they don't get a lot of large groups in here.

After they bring out water and take our orders (not complicated since Tuesday's menu consists of lasagna, salad, and bread) the waiter and hostess retreat to what I assume is the kitchen, and Connor and I are left alone.

"So…ye talked t'Murphy last night? About yer 'boys' night' idea?"

I nod, not sure where he's going with this.

"Lass, why d'ye think we wouldn't want ye around?"

I glance down at the tablecloth, running my finger back and forth across the embroidered pattern as I shrug. I'm not comfortable with direct questioning like this. Unfortunately, Connor is rather direct.

"Have Murph an' I done somethin' t'make ye think we don't want ye around?"

"No, but…" Geez, I got this from Murphy last night, albeit more of a statement than a question. I guess that's just the difference in their styles.

"But what, girl?"

"I already had this talk with Murphy; don't you two tell each other everything?"

Connor narrows his eyes, but he's not quite pissed. Not yet, at least.

"We might talk a bit, yeah, but I'm not m'brother. Ye aren't happy, an' if it's somethin' I can deal with, ye need t'tell me first-hand and not down the line through Murphy."

Now _I'm_ confused. "Why do you think I'm not happy?"

"Lass, ye practically kicked me an' Murphy t'the curb yesterday with no warnin'. Ye forbid us visitation rights, then ye freak out at us. We knew somethin' was wrong, that's why Murph came t'visit ye last night in spite of what ye said."

His eyes narrow a little more. "Murph an' I, we take care of what's ours. Period. We aren't gonna get tired of ye. If we need some space, ye should know ye'd be the first t'know. I thought you'd know that about us by now. Why would we keep somethin' like that from ye?"

Wow. I don't think I could feel like more of an ass right now if I tried.

"I didn't mean to freak out…and I'm not unhappy with either of you, I swear. I just don't understand…I mean, why would you…Who would want…"I trail off, acutely aware that A) I'm babbling; and B) doing so in the manner of an idiot.

At this point, I would give almost anything to be saved by an interruption from the waiter, but no such luck. And Connor isn't making this any easier by being so quietly patient and attentive.

Jerk.

"I suck at relationships. The very few guys I've dated all broke up with me for various degrees of me being around too much with various degrees of bullshit tacked on. I guess…well, I guess I didn't want you two to go the same way. I don't want to lose what we have. I…can't lose this. You. Him."

Yep. Still babbling. If I'm not careful, though, I might get used to this whole "world not exploding when I speak my mind" thing. It's quite addictive.

Connor takes my face firmly between both his hands and looks me straight in the face.

"Seriously, lass, dontcha think we'd tell ye if we were gettin' tired of ye?"

Déjà vu or what?

He pulls me closer, his hands sliding around the sides of my neck as he presses his lips to mine. Which is, of course, exactly when the waiter chooses to reappear.

He and the hostess lay out salad, bread, and lasagna, and the tiny table groans with its sudden responsibilities. As they disappear back into the kitchen, I'm seized by a sudden fit of mischief.

Connor, oblivious to my mood shift, loads his plate from the family-style platters; I follow suit, but I'm not really hungry anymore. Not for lasagna, at any rate.

What can I say? Reassurance from the two most incredible men I've ever met tends to do good things to my libido.

As Connor digs in, I slide nonchalantly closer to him until our legs are touching from thigh to calf. I try to seem natural as I switch my fork to my other hand and begin eating.

As our legs touch, Connor's hand strays automatically to my knee underneath the table. Expecting this, my own hand slips down to his and gently but firmly pushes it a tad bit northward.

He freezes mid-bite and watches my face. I know he's expecting me to look away, probably to blush or something, but I meet his eyes straight on. Sliding a forkful of salad between my lips, I lift an eyebrow and chew slowly, deliberately. Challengingly.

_Whatcha gonna do about it, Connor?_

He flashes me a wicked grin, squeezing my leg as if to say, _Alright, darlin'. Ye want some attention? I can help ye with that_.

Publicly, we continue eating, although an awkward, charged sort of silence falls between us. True to form, I can't trust myself to look at him now that my challenge has been accepted. I seriously might burst into self-conscious giggles. At least I'm not blushing.

Rather, at least it's too dim in here for anyone to be able to tell whether I'm blushing.

I can tell he's trying to get a rise out of me at first; he starts by lightly scraping his nails underneath my skirt up the inside of my leg to the top of my inner thigh. He repeats the motion back down my other thigh until he reaches my knee.

I grit my teeth, half-annoyed and three-quarters aroused (seems to be my semi-permanent state around the MacManuses). He knows I'm hyper-ticklish there.

I do _not_ want to squeak in public. I do my best to keep up the pretense of normal eating; Connor, of course, looks perfectly calm and collected.

Underneath the cover of the tablecloth, he slowly drags the hem of my skirt upward until it's bunched nearly at the top of my thighs. His hand rests, fingers splayed and digging in just short of painful, on the exposed skin below my newly-shortened hemline.

I close my eyes, apparently savoring a bite of lasagna (it really is quite good, Connor wasn't lying), but really I'm reveling in the hot, firm grip of his fingers sinking into my leg.

I swallow and flick my tongue out as if catching some stray sauce, but my lips have become ridiculously parched; probably from the rapid breathing. My heart is pounding, and I can feel a full-body flush creeping out directly from his hand. I think I might have developed a serious case of the Sahara in my mouth.

All this, and he's barely touched me. I might have bitten off more than I can tonight.

Then his hand is moving, and his fingers ghost over the now-damp cloth between my legs. I stifle a hiss, nearly choking on my water, and glare at him.

"Timing is everything, Connor," I mutter. He smirks and helps himself to more lasagna.

Now that he's found that spot, though, he has no intention of moving on. At least I won't be taken by surprise again.

Maybe I'll put the water down for a few minutes, though. Just to be safe.

He presses more insistently against the cloth, finding my clit through the thin fabric. He nudges firmly with a knuckle, and I just manage to smother my groan with a well-timed bite of bread.

Though I can't look at him, I can feel his eyes on my face, watching my reaction as he pulls the crotch of my underwear aside. He leisurely pushes one finger inside me, and I give up all pretense of eating. Holding onto the edge of the table and not choking are safer options.

He drags his finger back out coated in moisture and draws it up to my clit. I'm shivering, partially from the stimulus and partially in anticipation of what he'll do next. I should've known better than to think he wouldn't surprise me again.

I've never done anything like this in public before. Kissing with a little gropage is pretty much the extent of my public lewdness résumé. What the hell have these two Irish delinquents turned me into? I used to be able to make it through an hour or two without thinking about sex. Now, though…Good grief.

He strokes his damp finger around and around in lazy circles, pausing only to squeeze the tiny, hypersensitive bundle of nerves every few seconds. My breath is coming in quick, shallow pants, and I'm feeling a little light-headed. He slows his movements, changing to long, deep, upward and downward strokes on either side of my clit.

"Breathe, girl." His voice is low, rough, and almost as raw as my nerves. "Got a ways t'go yet."

I'm strung tighter than a bow string already. How much more does he seriously think I can hold out? I force my breathing to slow down. I mentally scold me heart rate, telling it to fucking chill out already; I don't need it getting away from me now.

He lengthens his strokes again, sliding all the way down my slit to slip a finger inside, then moving back up to circle my clit. As usual, he's setting a calm, steady, predictable pace, and just as predictably he's driving me completely crazy. I couldn't unclench my hands from the table now if I tried.

Which is, of course, when the waiter comes out to refill our drinks. This time, he's so oblivious to what we're doing that he completely misses my flushed face, heaving chest, or sudden downward shoving of my skirt. Connor, unsurprisingly, is perfectly at ease.

"Do you need anything else?"

Connor takes a long drink of water, staring heatedly in my direction.

"Not fer at least twenty minutes."

The waiter shoots a confused glance at Connor, then at me. I didn't know I could blush any deeper, but I manage to surprise myself. I clear my throat and feel a sudden, intense desire to splash some water on my face. This room is way too hot.

"No, thank you…but which way is the restroom?"

The confused waiter points the way and retreats back to his less complicated kitchen with one last shrug. Without looking back at Connor, I slide from the booth and hurry across the tiny dining room. I let out a long, tense breath I've been holding for, oh ten minutes or so. I don't think I'm built for this kind of stress.

I'm leaning over the sink, lost in thought, so I don't see the door open behind me. I don't see Connor slip in, and I don't hear the door shut and lock behind him.

I am, however, fully aware when he grabs me from behind, spinning me to face him. His hand is over my mouth, muffling my startled shriek before I realize I've made a sound.

"We've got about eighteen minutes by my count, lass."

His mouth replaces his hand as he lifts me onto the counter, shoving my skirt up to my waist. My underwear is unceremoniously dragged off and tossed to the side.

It's rather difficult to concentrate what with the sharp ache between my legs being exacerbated by Connor's tongue doing its best to thrust its way down my throat, but I manage a successful attempt to get his belt open and jeans unzipped. He reaches down, shoving different offending fabrics down or aside as necessary. Then his hands are on my hips, and he jerks me forward, and it's all I can do to hang on.

I let my head fall back as I rock against him, and every sound is magnified in the tiny space of the bathroom. He buries his face in my shoulder, stifling his own involuntary sounds as he slams into me again, pounding the breath right out of me.

My voice is a strange, echoing cross between a moan and a whimper when his name escapes my lips. His mouth is on mine again, solving both of our noise problems. I don't think I'd have been able to keep quiet much longer. His hand moves to my chest, squeezing roughly through my blouse and bra, and I involuntarily buck harder against him.

And then the tension snaps, and he swallows my scream as I come, hard, so much more intensely than I thought I could. I hadn't even felt the orgasm building yet, and my thighs clamp around his waist in blissful shock.

He thrusts once, twice, a third time, and he stiffens against me. His mouth falls from our kiss as his forehead drops onto my shoulder. The only sound in the room now is our combined heavy breathing and the occasional clink of Connor's belt buckle against the edge of the counter.

"Fuck me, lass," he growls into my neck. His lips brush lightly over the sensitive skin behind my ear, and I shiver, pulling him just a little closer.

"Ought t'take ye out t'dinner more often."

I grin, glad he can't see my face.

"Definitely beats your home-cooking."

_Author's Note: Okay, so I know the relationship conversation was a tad repetitive if you've read Take-Out, but I personally feel you need to have conversations with everyone you're in a relationship with…don't depend on someone else to do it for you. Plus, that's not Murphy's job. It's a rather unique situation, and I don't think it would work without a fairly high level of openness and honesty. This one was kind of fun to write, although I must admit to getting blocked right before le sexy times commenced. Seems to be a trend with most of my stories lately. Comments, concerns, questions, hit me! Leave a little review in the box on your way out, and goodnight! You're all fabulous!_


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